


Existence at Trial's End

by Withy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Metaphorical, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withy/pseuds/Withy
Summary: The pain of existence represented by physical wounds. The journey of hardship as a scorching desert. Depression and horror as a beast's lethal claws.The quest for identity at Trial's End.





	Existence at Trial's End

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be an entirely metaphorical take on the struggles of real life... but it kinda just turned into a long whump-fest. Heh.
> 
> enjoy?

**Existence at Trial's End**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`**

Eyes opened in defiance of the pain. Warring with it. Challenging it. It surged up, poisoned claws piercing deep into his legs, arms. His heart.

Again, gravity pulled him to his knees, muscles loosening in a moment of weakness. It was so much. Only his constant struggle with the pain, with the blood, with the despair, had made him strong enough to withstand the severe amount he was facing.

He simply would not give in to the suffering today. Not today. For twenty-nine years he'd been plowing on, through ever-increasing hardship. Through agony. Since the day of his birth. Since the struggle to earn his Identity begun.

When one is born into this world, they are given to a guide. The guide stays for a time, leading them. Encouraging them. Giving them a model of existence to strive for. Their guide carries them as babies, and once they learn to walk, their guide will never carry them again. But they remain close, directing, teaching them how to fend for themself, but from a distance. Training from the sidelines, never interfering. Not even to prevent their death, for it is not the duty of a guide to save, but to teach their charge how to do it for themselves. The guide will instill into them the purpose for living, until it becomes the only drive that fuels them.

Without that drive, you die.

He doesn't remember being a baby, but he remembers his guide. A young man, probably new to life himself. His guide never coddled him, but taught him to survive. He didn't put bandaids on his knees when they were bloodied, but taught him to clean his own cuts, to apply his own bandages. When he cried, his guide didn't comfort him, but allowed him to cry, and when he was finished, his guide asked him in a soft voice what it was that made him cry. Listened, advised.

At the age of ten, his guide left, as they are all purposed to do. But the guidance stayed; a mental link that continued to provide him with the advice he needed during the most forlorn of times. As an encouragement for when he was certain that he was taking his very last step.

From the age of 10 until 19, he did alright. A few scrapes, a few bruises. Minor things that were mostly fairly easy to dust himself off and continue walking away from. Though once, when he was 15, he fell from a great height and broke his wrist. He cried for a long time. Hours. Heated and angry, full of terror and full of loneliness. But when the tears finally dried and the uncontrollable fear softened its grasp, he heard his guide's voice in his head.

_You have an injury. You have allowed yourself to feel the pain of it. So now, how will you solve it?_  A brief flash of an image, of a smile. His goal.

This was a challenge, he knew. If he was not able to pass this one, the next one, which would only be worse, would probably kill him.

So, biting down on a cloth and blindly ignoring his own screams, he snapped the bone back into place.

The next trial happened halfway through his 19th year.

He had been climbing through a dense jungle. It was only recently that he had moved into this terrain, and it was still quite unfamiliar to him. Low branches and thorny vines scratched at his face and arms, while stinging nettles bit at his legs and rotten logs encumbered his steps. Water and food were plentiful; a simple snare or trap could easily provide him with meals for a few days; it was the one upside to this new environment that he could find. The downside was the jungle itself, and its deadly means of self-protection.

Pushing into a clearing, he settled against a tree next to a shallow pool. The foliage he'd traversed through today had been very thick and cumbersome. He'd traveled twice as far yesterday by this time, and yet he was more exhausted now than then. Splashing some water on his face, he gazed down at his rippling reflection. Wild eyes, young eyes. Bright with the spark of drive. He had hope, he had purpose.

He reached down towards the water again, saw the snake just as it sunk it's venomous fangs into his right forearm. He yelled, crab-scrambling away from the waters. The serpent held firm, and he could feel the tendrils of agonizing mortality flowing into his blood.

_You need to act._  His guide, the voice of encouragement, the golden light at struggle's end.

Panic. Panic was his weakness. His guide had always said the same. If you can win your war against mindless fear, you can survive almost anything that is thrown at you. And it was panic that he struggled so severely with.

Terror encroached all thought, building so intrusively into his heart that his innate will to fight was all but squelched. The snake worked its fangs even deeper into his flesh. He felt his body weakening as two rivers of blood dripped in parallel down his arm. If he could only calm down and think.

_You have allowed yourself to feel the fear, and now you must act. Act now, or you will die._  Solemn, quietly urging.

He… he had a knife. Strapped to his left leg. At once he remembered what he had done when he was 15, when faced with the terrifying task of setting the bone. Blinded himself to the fear.

With his left hand, he drew the blade, and with a quick movement, shutting the fear off from his heart, he stabbed it through the snake below its head. In its own agony, the deadly viper released its hold on him, twisting violently around itself. Its fangs dripped with a poisonous mixture of venom and his own blood, staining the earth. He drew back his arm and flung the snake from the blade gripped tightly in his hand, sending it far away from him into the jungle. Left to die on its own in a bloody heap.

The toxin quickly overcame him and he fell on his back, releasing his hold on the blade to grasp his trembling arm to his chest.

His guide had not taught him how to cure the bite from a snake, just that every trial could be overcome if one had the determination to suffer through into the other side of it.

So he did, and for two days he lay on the jungle floor. Sweating and delirious, writhing with fever as the sickness ran its course. Once he felt himself on the brink of death, and only by recalling his instilled purpose was he able to pull himself away from it, from the agony flowing through him, making his limbs feel like fire, from the exhaustion, making it all too easy for him to close his eyes and give in to never opening them again.

Waking up on the third day, filthy, exhausted, clothes drenched and skin shining with stale sweat, but free from the fever and free of the venom, felt like being reborn. Relief and  _life_  washed through him like purifying water. He had survived his second trial, and soon he was certain he would be ready for the next.

It came at age twenty-three, and the desert was the terrain he was now forced to traverse. Food was scarce, water was even more so. Endlessly, golden dunes rose and fell before him, and he had only the unmoving sun to direct his path. He would find water soon, of that he was certain. His feet drug wearily through the fine, scorching sand, wrapped boots kept the stuff out, but his feet felt leaden, trapped as if within a furnace. His shirt lay over his head, clinging to strands of sweaty hair. A light jacket protected his arms from the sun, but the heat was unrelenting.

Night never came, and water was yet to be discovered. Day continued into day. Into day. Into day. How much longer could he do this?

_Just keep going._

Why? How did he get here? How should he get out?

_Just keep going._  Calm, but firm.

Trust his guide. Always trust his guide. One foot in front of the other. Dunes stretched before him, and time steadily chipped away at his resolve. Keep going. There were no animals, no trees, no life. Just him and the sky above. His eyes grew blurred from the constant firebright glare. He stared at the ground, at his shuffling feet. One step more, and then another.

Beneath his clothing his skin burned. His head was heavy. He felt gravity's pull, desperate to claim him into the scorched earth. Keep going. He tripped when his foot failed to raise high enough, but managed to keep his balance. Keep going. His mouth was devoid of all moisture, tongue dry like a lump of raw cotton. Keep—he stumbled, his head suddenly floating away from his body, nausea roiling in his abdomen. The cooked sand burned him through his clothes, and he knew he was lying prone, but he felt disconnected from himself. His arms were backwards, then upside down. Legs twisted around themselves at his shoulders and arms at his hips. His consciousness swirled around the mess, lightly tethered by a strand of twine blowing in a wind that didn't exist.

He… he might have been dying. How long had it been since he'd entered this desert? Days. Nightless days. His guide… was going to let him die? He couldn't move, couldn't even tell up from down. Tears as hot as the sand scorching his hands and face dripped from his eyes. Then they stopped, as if detached from the valve that supplied them. His body was going dry, shriveling as a frog that dies upon a summer-baked road.

He gasped and coughed at the dust in his throat, a burst of sand blowing away from his mouth. How desperately he wanted to cry, to pity himself and wallow in his impending death. There was the tiniest of flickers of hope that someone would save him, but it snuffed out just as quickly. When had anyone ever saved him. His guide had only ever…

… only told him how. To save himself.

He didn't want to die. Not yet. Not yet. He didn't feel in control of his body, but he told it what to do. One hand reached out in front of him. The other. Told his legs to push. Dragged himself forward, pushing the sand out of the way. Did it again. Again. Again. His limbs strained, burning muscles pushed beyond their limits. His head was swirling with fatigue, utterly dehydrated. His stomach churned, desperate for water.

He kept dragging himself forward, cutting a path like a large, desolate snail through the desert. A tiny scar in a universe of sand. Again. Again.

Breath grated against his throat with every stretch of his lungs, harsh and raw. Dust coated his mouth, lined his throat. He coughed, he choked, but he kept breathing, kept clawing his way forward. His body was so heavy, sand clinging to it; the desert grabbing with fluid-like fingers to claim its prize. At any moment his arms were going to give out, his legs would refuse to propel him forward. Just keep going. Draw strength from his soul, for his body had none. Another gasp, another heave.

His arms fell out from under him. And then his legs. The sweat sodden cloth tumbled from his head. There was an impact, and then he couldn't breathe at all. He swallowed air that was too thick to inhale, and his eyes opened wide. Sunlight that only moments before had been unwanted and unrelenting now refracted off crystal clear waves into millions of sparkling jewels.

He had fallen into a lake. Strength slowly soaked back into him even as grime floated away from his body. At the ultimate edge of his strength, beyond many false edges, he had passed the third trial.

And he would never doubt his guide again.

The trials came much more frequently after that. By age twenty-five, he realized that his fight was not even halfway over, despite only five years remaining of the tribulation. By age twenty-seven, he carried twice as many scars as he had had at age twenty-five. One after another, the trials came, increasingly frequent. Some were harsher, coating his skin with blood. Some softer, leaving him undeterred yet shaken.

Wild animals of the savanna chased and scratched at him, during his 26th year, cleaving great valleys of bleeding red through his back, his arms, his chest. It was then that he learned to run, how to move his arms and plant his feet to get the fastest sprint. He couldn't outrun a cheetah; there were three deep scars stretching diagonally across the top of his left leg to validate that truth, but he could evade them, twisting his body like a dragon through the skies, darting from left to right with no seeming pattern. Fearlessly he threw himself amidst a herd of elephants that managed to stave off the beast with their stomping and trumpeting while he escaped in the opposite direction.

He walked from the savanna as a champion would from a tournament of death. Maimed, beaten, bloody, but victorious.

As the time turned, and his 26th year became his 27th… darkness fell, enclosing around him. Day shifted to sunset shifted to night, and then shifted even further into pure, lightless, black in a matter of minutes. Suffocating, sapping any resolve and replacing it with a poisonous terror. Days became weeks, then months of darkness, of silence. He had no sense of direction, no map to follow. All he could do was put one foot in front of the other, as he had in the desert. There was no light, no touch of wind, no taste of food, no smell of grass. Total sensory deprivation was only just staved away by the cries of his own voice. It lilted, rising and falling with the waves of his emotion, ranging from soft cries to harsh screams of rage and desperation to escape. He felt as if he were walking, but he couldn't prove it. His hands against his thighs sensed the movement, but he couldn't look and check for himself. He turned inward, and the increasingly despairing thoughts swirling in his head brought him teetering on the brink of sanity.

_Sing._

He knew no songs.

_Sing your own songs._

So he did. During the empty void of night, he walked to the beat of soft songs that he'd written himself. He knew he was walking, believed it to be true. The rhythm of his songs propelled him further and deeper into the night. It was the only thing that kept him from madness.

By the time he broke through and into true daylight, the tune he sang was one of acceptance. Resigned to one of two fates; make it through into day, or continue through darkness until his final breath.

It took several minutes for his eyes to remain open without shutting on their own and watering heavily. For a time, he thought he might never see again, that his eyes had forgotten how to. But eventually, the unbroken brightness formed into greater and lessers. Shapes, colors. Clarity.

He realized he was standing on a clean street in the middle of a city. Buildings stretched high on all sides. A wide road before him. It was… empty. No people, no vehicles, no movement at all. It was daytime, yet a dense fog hung over the lower rooftops, obscuring the upper floors of nearby skyscrapers from view. Blocking the sun. Streetlights flickered, shadows crept from the alleyways.

This was not a good place to be, and for a moment he considered reentering the void, a song ready on his lips, in the hopes of coming out somewhere else. He turned and stared into the darkness that had trapped him for so long.

And it stared back. Startled, he shuffled away from the wall of night, as a shadow darker than blackness  _moved._  Moved towards him. Broke through into the street. A horrible, grotesque mass of bone and glass, jagged stone and tar. Large, red, pupil-less eyes leered from every side of it. Putrid green blood dripped from dark crevasses within the form. Jagged claws, long and acidic, protruded from its head, its shoulders, its knees. The claws moved as fingers, stretching towards him to rip him apart.

He couldn't look away from the monstrosity before him. His breath stuttered in his throat, and he put a hand on his chest because he suddenly didn't have enough air. The trials were colliding… or was this still part of the previous one? Darkness made corporeal? The final battle with the night.

_Boy. Run._

He turned on his heel and ran as never before, just as the creature lunged after him. A massive slimy leg, dripping with tar and pus, placed in front of the other. It was fast.

But not as fast as him. With a small, slightly panicked grin, he realized that his previous trial in the savanna had prepared him for this. He could run, and he could evade. He took sharp corners, dodging quickly from street, to alley, to street. It was way behind him; he had outrun the night.

What he had forgotten, was that night always follows day. He broke from a dark road into a street lined with small shops. Empty shops. His lungs heaved with the force of his run, sweat beading at his temple. And there it was before him; the monster. It looked slightly smaller, but no less menacing. Vile liquid dripped from its claws, and a hiss rose from the ground where the liquid touched.

Perhaps he had gotten turned around, and headed back towards the monster by mistake? He took one step backwards, away from it.

A intense, burning pain pierced his lower back. He yelped and stumbled several steps forward, twisting to discover the source and fire seemed to spread from whatever had stung him. It was… an exact copy of the monster now at his back. In unison, both fiends began to morph, a second head pulling from the first, two arms becoming four. He was mortified, fingers beginning to tremble in alarm. And his gap of escape was closing. The four monsters were splitting into eight, and there he was gaping like a hooked fish.

Angry at himself he turned to the right, charged at the shrinking space separating the front beasts from the behind beasts. The gap closed before he got there as 8 became 16. They were all much smaller. Much faster. And he was surrounded.

The squelching monstrosities formed a dark ring around him. All sixteen of them stepped forward, tightening the circle.

He spun, searching for a way out, any way out. Briefly he considered a running dive over their heads, but the acidic talons jetting from their foreheads would surely skewer him. He had no tool, no weapon with which to defend himself.

The circle tightened.

Panic rose in a heavy wave. He rose his fists, in defiance of his own terror, preparing himself to charge and merely plow his way through. He didn't see three of the monsters behind him jump forward, talons outreached. Sharp, acidic agony pierced into his back, his thigh, his calf.

He yelled in rage as icy fire spread from the punctures, and jumped away from them. But the remaining fiends had moved in as well. He threw a fist, catching one upside the head, as acid pierced him in the stomach, shoulder, chest, but stone and jagged bone cut deeply into his knuckles. He pulled his bloodied hand to himself and kicked at another, but the glass protruding from its body sliced into his leg. He tried to stumble away, but they had him completely enclosed. A cry tore from his throat, their acidic fingers stabbing into him from all sides. He couldn't fight them! His entire body was burning, inside and out, the acid searing through him like glass in his veins. The pain drove him to his knees. He covered his head and screamed with the fullness of his breath.

_You must endure._

The blows continued to rain down on his hunched form. Not just stabbing now, but cutting, clawing, carving through his skin and muscle. His throat went hoarse with his screams as he twisted to get away. The ground below him was splattered with his blood. He was pushed to his back, and one monster reared back and sunk his talons deeply into his chest.

His lungs filled and he choked, blood rushing up his throat to spill from his lips and drip down his chin. His chest stilled, lungs no longer able to function. He gasped hollowly, slowly asphyxiating, but no air could pass through the blood in his throat. He could feel his heart pounding heavily, caged by the beast's claws lanced through his chest-

His heart.

With horrified realization, he knew what the beast was about to do.

He was unable to scream, unable to move. Blood seeped from everywhere on his body, fire burning in his veins, chest building with nearly intolerable pressure.

Within his body, the claws moved together, squeezing his heart.

His body screamed for him, seizing under the strain of the agony. He convulsed, his arms pressed tightly to his stomach, fists clenched, blood spewing from his mouth. His eyes were wide, mouth parted but incapable of neither drawing nor pushing breath. He jerked and twisted uncontrollably, but the monster was undeterred. It began to pull its closed fist from his chest.

A sudden blinding light forced his eyes shut. His heart was released and the talons were abruptly yanked from his chest with a wet squrlch. He lay on the ground, tremors wracking his body, his lifeblood pooling below him, and screaming filling his ears.

They weren't his screams. His eyes shot open, and he watched as holes began to appear in the fiends' bodies. No, he realized. They were melting. High above them, the sun's rays had pierced through the thick, gray sheen that lay upon the city. The beasts, composed of the essence of darkness, could not withstand the pure, golden streamers streaking down from above. The monsters' great, heaving masses withered, howls turning muted and guttural as bit by bit of their forms were sloughed away, until nothing remained but 16 charred shapes on the ground.

Far too weary to be shocked, he smiled at the irony, more blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Endured he had, as his guide had told him to, but the sun had come too late.

The pressure eased from his chest a bit, and he started when something within him shifted. Weakly he lifted his head to peer down at himself. The wounds were stitching together where touched by the sunlight. The warm beams moved over his body, caressing it with gentle touches, sewing him together inch-by-inch. The deep carvings through his muscles slowly sealed, his heart slid solidly back into place, his lungs emptied of fluid.

After coughing and spitting a mouthful of blood, he found he could breathe again. For a long while, he simply lay there, surrounded by the charred remains of his destroyers basking in the warmth that healed his body. Breathed in the clear air.

As the last of the pain faded away, his eyes fell shut and he slept. When he awoke again, his journey was nearly over.

Everyone dreams of reaching this day in their lives. It is the entire reason for existing, after all. You are born. You struggle. You suffer. You're pounded into the ground, stripped to the very bone. And if you survive until your 30th year?

You receive your identity.

Once you receive your identity, and only after then, may you  _live_. For with identity, comes purpose and a reason to live, a reason that's beyond simply finding the reason.

He could see the end. It was there, not far ahead. Across a field of grass. A glimmering white wall, the border that separated tribulation from selfhood.

_Do not stop. Not even for a minute. Don't stop._

He burst across the border, feet pulling from the mud like a thorn from a wound. The ground passing underfoot was merely a green blur; he had eyes only for the horizon. A grin tugged at his young-but-weathered face. After coming so far, he was so close. The boundary loomed before him, endlessly, to the left, right, and into the sky. His legs pumped harder than ever before, bringing him to the end of his suffering. Finally.

A silver arrow soared from the expanse before him and slammed into his left shoulder, puncturing through his back below the shoulder blade. The impact threw his left side off balance, and he canted to the right, but was able to catch himself.

He knew the pain was coming and was ready for its challenge. The final trial. The last test of his willpower. He left the arrow in his shoulder, ignored it, and charged on. Don't stop.

The pain from his shoulder began to bloom just as a second arrow pierced through his abdomen. The sharp agony was immediate, and he doubled over, still running, but quickly losing his balance. He couldn't fall. He refused to allow himself to fall. With every bit of strength he possessed, he forced his body straight. And ran.

The third arrow he saw coming, and twisted out of the way just as it skimmed across his upper arm, leaving a shallow crease. It distracted him from the fourth. He was forced into a dead standstill by a heavy force as a tree falling on him slamming into his chest.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't… his lungs weren't working… he—

_Don't. Stop._

He stepped one foot in front of the other. The movement of his body pulled his muscles away from the wounds and it hurt. It hurt so badly. He forced a ragged breath into his lungs and took another step. Blood spread into his clothes and dripped down the arrow shafts, and he took another step. He felt it running down his skin, and he took another step.

The fifth arrow pierced through his leg. He shut his mouth tightly and groaned through the pain.

Hot, raging anger built inside him like gasoline thrown to flame, spreading to his tortured limbs. It blotted some of the pain as rage filled his being. He had not come so far to be stopped. So he took a step, then another, faster one. Then he was jogging. Then he was sprinting at a dead run into a volley of silver arrows. They thudded into his legs, arms, chest, shoulders. But he ignored them all. He felt his body dying, organs shutting down, blood pouring from every wound. But he  _ran._ In protest of the universe and gravity trying to pull him down, he  _ran._

He hit the wall a moment before his eyes went dark and all strength left him as he fell into nothingness.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on a small circle made of shimmering white marble. The arrows were gone, he felt no pain. Whole. His clothes and hair fluttered gently around him, as if he were underwater. Gasping, he lifted his arms; his scars had completely vanished. Laughter suddenly rose from within and spilled over. Long and hard he laughed, loudly and clearly. Tears spilled from his eyes and he laughed until he couldn't breathe, bent over, shoulders shaking. After what seemed a lifetime of undiscovered joy, the mirth died down enough for him to catch his breath. Swiping the tears from his cheeks, he straightened.

A figure stood not far from him, smiling softly. It was his guide.

_You made it._

His guide's lips moved, but he heard the sound in his head.

"You didn't think I would?"

The guide smiled wider.

_I believed you could, of course. As do all guides. Not everyone makes it._

"So what happens now?"

_You have reached the highest tier of Overcoming. All paths are before you to choose from._

As his guide spoke, from the circle he stood upon spread seven branches, extending and growing into wide roads towards the north, northeast, east, southeast, south, southwest, and west. Each road was a different color of sparkling marble.

His guide walked and stood next to the glimmering, blue path.

_This one is knowledge and learning. Be a student to any study, or all of them if you desire. Become a teacher once you render proficient, or choose to continue your quest for knowledge alone. That is your choice._

He moved to the green path.

_This one is media and truth-seeking. Hunt down the facts behind the mysteries. Uncover every lie and expose it. Spread your knowledge with the world, to all who will hear you._

Next was the orange path.

_This path is arts and entertainment. Raise your voice to a crowd of many or a crowd of none. It is your decision. Play from a multitude of instruments. Be an actor in tales of victory and drama._ His guide paused to give him a wink.  _Your voice already saved you once, didn't it?_

He moved to the next path, a glittering gray one.

_This one represents business. Numbers and calculating. Strategizing. Analysis of what the people long for. Providing a market for wares unseen._

The next path was daisy yellow.

_This one is family. Find the one that is suited for you. Dig down and spread your roots deep into the earth. Grow a legacy through you and your children. Live a simple life of love and togetherness._

The second to last path was a sparkling blood red.

_Government. Create the standards by which people live. Weave into existence the laws that will shape the cultures of the next generation. Lord over the people as a tyrant on a throne if you wish, or be a man that is for the people, ever seeking to birth better lives for all._

The last path. Purple.

_The final path is religion. Search out the meaning of life. Discover the truths of the universe, its secrets. Learn if myths really are myths. Find the purpose that creation was designated to fulfill._

His guide stopped then, waiting, hands folded.

_The choice is yours._

He turned in a slow circle, pausing to consider each path as he faced it.

"This decision is not an easy one…"

His guide's chuckles rang clear and melodic in his head.

_Then perhaps you should have given up earlier, so that you would have had fewer options._

He smiled, then. But it was tainted with sorrow.

"That's not what I mean. All of these are paths to good lives, if you live them correctly. I would happily take any of them."

_So what is causing you distress? You don't know which one to choose, or…?_

"No," he said, straightening. Certain of his decision. Turning, he pointed to the northwest, the only direction off the circle he stood upon that did not have a path leading from it. "I choose that path. I wish to be a guide."

The shock was clear on his guide's face. Mouth dropped open, eyebrows lifting high.

"I reached the highest tier of Overcoming, right? I can choose any path."

A look of extreme anguish fell over his guide's face.

_Do you realize what you're choosing? To watch countless lives suffering and bleeding and dying, over and over again. Powerless to do anything to aid them but for a few guiding words? Can you comprehend how soul-wrenching that is? Watching you…_ His guide drooped slightly, eyes turning downwards.  _So badly did I want to help you._

"You did. You gave me just what I needed. Without you, I would not have made it."

His guide's eyes lifted to him, but they were full of tears.

_Are you certain this is what you want?_

He nodded. Absolutely sure. "I am."

A black path, beautiful in its ominousness, glittering with millions of tiny fractals, appeared before him, at the northwestern edge of his circle.

_Then go, newborn guide. Your path awaits you._ His guide stepped to the side, spreading an arm. The smallest of smiles.

He stepped onto the black road and felt his identity easing into his being with every step. His name, his purpose. The duties that lay before him.

Yes. This was the correct choice.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**The End.**


End file.
